Still plugging away at my poetry-reading. Currently in the middle of two books...what can I say, I'm a bibliophile. I'll update as I complete them.
I really loved the prompt over at NaPoWriMo today.
It went something like this: Today’s (optional) prompt springs from the form known as the aubade. These are morning poems, about dawn and daybreak. Many aubades take the form of lovers’ morning farewells, but . . . today is Monday. So why not try a particularly Mondayish aubade – perhaps you could write it while listening to the Bangles’ iconic ? Or maybe you could take in Phillip Larkin’s grim Aubade for inspiration (though it may just make you want to go back to bed). Your Monday aubade could incorporate lovey-dovey aspects, or it could opt to forego them until you’ve had your coffee.
I meant to write specifically about the magical experience of a morning sunrise, but it seems my ancestral roots took my pen by their hand.
Here is the resulting poem:
My Natives Knew No Farewell
Spring clouds hover,
An incessant bucketful of rain,
Across the red-orange horizon
Of another early morning.
The chimes on the porch next door,
Jingle to the tune of a soft wind,
Their strings dancing like
Marionettes on invisible fingers.
Somewhere far away
In a field near the plains,
A windmill catches tail
And begins to spin its rusty wheel.
The winter winds rode out of town
Last weekend with the first
Thunderstorms of April,
Now the red-breasted robins
And Kentucky Cardinals
Prune their nests for new eggs.
Old legend has it that cardinals
Are spirit signs, earthly visitation
From mothers and fathers
Already gone before us.
I hug my coffee cup,
Warm as a still-beating heart,
And grip the war-armor
Of my pen, unafraid because
I have ghosts to keep me company.
The heart-songs of their stories
To strum the stiff strings
Of my poets-heart,
Those brown-skinned mamas
Of Poncho and Pigtail,
Buffalo skin and fine feather,
Still dance rain-circles atop the hills,
The naked eye can’t see.
And the trees still sing songs
No one alive remembers,
I hear them when the wind blows
Between cedar firs and needled pines,
Across dogwood and
Birch twigs, weather smooth.
They speak in the Native tongue
Of my Cherokee ancestors.
And I believe the sun God still listens.